


Equal, But Not Even

by Avierra



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avierra/pseuds/Avierra





	Equal, But Not Even

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akira/gifts).



**Fandom:** Saiyuki  
**Title:** Equal, But Not Even  
**Author/Artist:** Avierra  
**Warnings: This is incredibly** **NSFW**  
**Pairing(s):** Cho Hakkai/ Sha Gojyo  
**Notes: For Battle Challenge #1, for Akira17’s prompt:**

58 bond verse  
Gojyo is 007 secret agent  
Hakkai is Q the quarter master  
where you go from there is up to you, have fun with it

**Points to Gojyo**

 

“Well. If you’re going to do something, get on with it,” says Q, trying hard to sound bored. Instead, his voice comes out in a trifle unsteadily. He’s also trying hard to be provoking, but 007 has worked with him for some time now and so knows how to deal, and he also has a will of… okay, not steel, but maybe something strong enough to hold out for another fifteen or twenty minutes.

Although, it’s pretty difficult with Q looking up at him the way he is. On anyone else that expression might be described as come-hither, but Q can be tad unpredictable.

So 007 steps back and regards the fruits of his labors and grins: Q handcuffed to the bed with the very cuffs he had tried to use on 007. This whole thing is some sort of weird cosmic justice or something, some freakish balancing of the scales. These sorts of things almost never happened to him, so he just looks and admires the way in which the stars have fallen into alignment.

Q lies stretched before him like an offering. A sexy, sexy offering.

“Nah. I don’t think I will ‘get on with it.’ Some things should be savored. Single pot still Irish whiskey. Fine wines. Q in handcuffs.”

He grins again and holds up the control device for the cuffs so Q can see it. It had been pretty easy to get them to fasten—there’s a red button that screams “push me” set apart from the rest of the buttons-- but the numerical keypad has him a bit mystified. Pushing the button again to release the cuffs, repeatedly, hasn’t had any discernable effect. Still, they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. He sets it on the top of the bed.

Q’s lip curls, then his face smooths out into impassivity. “I suppose you think you’re very clever.”

007 sits on the edge of the bed and pours himself a glass of wine. He dips a finger in and traces the outline of Q’s perfect mouth. Q gasps and closes his eyes, the tip of his tongue sweeping away the drops.

“I don’t like to toot my own horn,” 007 murmurs. Q actually laughs at that, so it just proves that this entire event is analogous to the poles shifting.

“But eh. Clever enough, apparently.” He grins down at Q again. “This is one of those weird intersections of theory and application. One the one hand, we have Q, wildly hot computer jock and inventor of remote-controlled handcuffs. Amongst other interesting sex toys, apparently, you kinky thing. On the other, we have 007, handsome and charming secret agent. Oh! And also amazingly adept reader of body language.”

“Can you read this?” Q is clearly struggling with the notion of flipping him off, but can’t quite bring himself to do it, which admittedly lessens the devastating impact of his retort. But there are other things 007 _can_ read: Q’s rapid breathing, his dilated pupils, and the pink flush along his cheekbones. He’s fucking gorgeous.

007 examines the cuffs, running his fingers gently along the red marks where Q’s struggling has left bruises. He can’t resist kissing the tender skin there, and Q draws in a sharp breath as 007’s lips ghost over his palm. “See, now this is why you don’t leave this shit to amateurs.” He makes a mental note to have Q put some salve on that later.

“Is it your plan to gloat all night?” inquires Q, his voice a little terse. “This is the crux of your entire problem, you know, your utter lack of concen—Mmmph!”

It’s almost never possible to shut Q up once he’s in the midst of one of his bouts of character analysis—it’s just best to listen and nod at the appropriate place-- but now is not one of those times. In fact, it’s extremely easy to lean over and kiss him, so he does: crushing that perfect mouth beneath his own, sweeping his tongue inside; tracing the contours of his lips, pressing little tiny coaxing kisses against the corners. He nibbles on Q’s lower lip and hears him give a little moan. 007 wraps an arm around Q’s shoulders to support his weight—007 doesn’t want to strain his arms or shoulders—and cups the side of his face in his other hand, his thumb tracing over Q’s cheekbones. His hair spill over 007’s fingers in a fall of silk. Q strains upwards in 007 arms to try and keep contact to prolong their kiss. They’re both breathing hard by the time 007 draws away.

Q seems to come to some sort of decision. He regards 007 through heavy-lidded eyes. “You should take your clothes off.” His voice is a little husky. He settles back in the pillows and crosses his legs at the ankle. He’s clearly in a much improved frame of mind. He’s also apparently deciding to ignore the sizable tent in his pants.

007 never lets it be said that he can’t take a hint. He begins to unbutton his shirt, but Q makes a discouraging sound. 007 looks over at him inquiringly.

“Undo your belt first, and then your pants. But leave them on,” suggests Q.

007 makes a show of it, slowly unlatching his belt and letting it fall to the floor. He unzips his pants, and leaves them open. No boxers for him, so Q can see just how aroused he is by all this. Q’s mouth hitches up at the corner as if likes what he see so far. Well, 007 certainly has nothing to be ashamed of.

“Now the shirt, start at the top. And fold it, please, instead of dropping it on the floor.” 007 grins at that.

He goes button by button, keeping the shirt lapped closed until the very end, then inching it open, revealing the flat planes of his stomach, the sculpted curve of his hipbones above his pants. He removes it unhurriedly, first one chiseled arm, then another; and carefully folds it with military precision. He places it on Q’s dresser with a flourish.

“Hmmm.” Q’s eyes sweep up and down 007’s body. His smile turns enigmatic. “Do you suck cock, 007?”

007 laughs. “I think we’re a little past asking and answering that, honestly.”

Still, Q starting in with the dirty talk is more than a bit unexpected. He’s beginning to wonder where quiet, repressed, po-faced Q has been hiding the evil twin secured to his headboard.

Q tilts his head and doesn’t say anything. 007 takes the opportunity to slide up the bed. He starts to reach for the buttons of Q’s shirt, but Q says, “That’s not where my cock is, 007.”

It’s like a punch in his stomach, and he’s not sure he can even breathe. “Holy shit, stop—“

“Unzip my pants, please.” Q’s voice is cool, but with that throaty little tone to it, and before he quite knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching across the bed and to the fastening of Q’s pants. He rubs his face across the bulge there, his mouth tracing the impressive contour of Q’s cock. Q doesn’t say anything, but his gaze goes incandescent. He unzips Q’s pants and draws them and his boxers down his legs.

Q flexes his knees and spreads his thighs. “Much better,” he murmurs. He has long, long legs, tightly muscled and shapely. If 007 were of a poetic bent, he could write fucking odes to Q’s big brain that runs circles around all of them, and his face, and legs, and his huge dick. He’s pretty much perfect as far as 007 can tell, but the guy doesn’t even seem to know it. All 007 can do is demonstrate his appreciation as best he can.

He slides between Q’s open thighs, and traces a line of kisses up the contours of Q’s thigh, up to the junction of his leg and stomach, and up the length of his dick. He takes the weight of Q’s balls in one hand, and licks across the crown of Q’s cock, smiling when he hears Q gasp.

“Put it in your mouth, 007,” says Q. He seems to be trying to sound stern, but his voice is a bit too husky for that.

He hooks a knee over 007’s shoulder and clamps it hard between his shoulders, the weight pushing him towards Q’s groin. And he obeys the unspoken order: angling his own body just so, taking in the hard fullness, bracing his hands and arms against the taut muscles of Q’s thighs, all while Q slides himself deeper into 007’s mouth. He can’t help the sounds that begin to come from him, all unbidden.

He feels his cheeks hollow as sucks and swirls his tongue. “Ah,” sighs Q. “That’s so pretty.” Q flexes his hips and works himself even deeper, and 007 wishes he could look up and see Q’s face. Instead he concentrates on breathing and not choking, and lets Q set his own pace. 007 can feel him swell even larger.

“That’s enough,” says Q. He braces one foot against 007’s shoulder, and gives him a bit of a nudge. 007 wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks up. Q’s still smiling slightly, still enigmatic, but his breathing is ragged. And his eyes… 007 can’t look away.

“There’s a bottle of oil in that case of… the things you requisitioned. I think you should get it.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t recall requisitioning oil. But admittedly, his thoughts are sort of fizzy right now.

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble, 007.”

He rummages around in the case. He doesn’t recognize half the things in there and his interest is definitely piqued, but… oil. He finds it, a bottle in its own little pocket, away from Q’s kinky bits of gear.

He eyes it, and Q’s smile widens. “I’m certain you know what to do with that.”

“What--” he begins.

“Oh,” says Q, apparently reading his mind. “I think you should do what you think is best, don’t you?”

007 swallows, and pours some of the oil into the palm of his hand. He can feel Q’s eyes watching him, almost consuming him. The oil smells really good, of spices and other things he can’t identify. He kind of wonders what’s in it, but he doubts that Q would let him use a dangerous oil on both of them. He hopes. He leans over Q and anoints his dick, letting the oil pool around the base of his cock, and run over his balls. Q bites his lips and closes his eyes as 007 twists his hand and works up and around the shaft. The long muscles in his thighs clench.

“That’s an excellent choice,” Q says finally, and his voice is shaky. “Remove your pants now. I want to watch you get yourself ready.”

He pulls the rest of his clothes off, remembering to fold them and place them out of the way, and Q’s gaze is admiring and warm as it sweeps over him. “Use the oil on yourself, please.”

He does, sliding his fingers into himself, and again, deeper; and again, and can’t help the moan that spills from him. The oil is warm, and a little tingly, but not unpleasantly so. “Ohhhh,” breathes Q, and it sounds like a prayer.

He slings a leg over Q’s hips, and positions himself, sliding his body on top of Q until their mouths meet, and then he kisses Q without waiting for Q to tell him to, and slides backwards until their hips are sealed together and Q breaches his body. Q feels huge within him, and he waits a moment to adjust, before settling on a rhythm.

He fucks Q (or is Q fucking him, he isn’t even sure and doesn’t care), and the suppressed moans that come from Q are the highest commendation he’s ever received. Q’s eyes are closed, his muscles taut as he chases his orgasm. 007 wraps his hand around his own dick, but he’s so far gone he almost can’t keep the rhythm they’ve set. He starts to stroke himself, the sound a counterpoint to their breathing, and he can feel his release building.

Q’s eyes open, and he smiles again. “Oh, 007. No, I think not,” he says. “No hands.”

It’s a steel-edged little smile, and he’s briefly confused as Q flexes his hips to change their position. It dislodges him from 007’s body, and it’s wrong on a level so fundamental he can barely comprehend it. But Q wraps his legs tightly around 007’s waist and says, sharply and clearly, “Antithesis.”

007 hears the cuffs click open, and Q’s arms come around his shoulders, and Q’s hand clenching in his hair, turning his head to face him: and Q’s mouth crushes down on his own. He braces 007’s hands against the edge of the headboard. “Keep your hands there,” Q whispers in his ear, his breath hot. Q’s hands slide over his chest and pinch at his nipples on their way down to his hips.

Then Q pulls him back against him, and re-seats himself, fucking him hard and nasty. He needs to touch himself, and starts to do so, but Q takes 007’s wrist and holds it in the small of his back, his other arm wrapped around 007’s chest. 007 can only take it, move just the way Q wants him to, and it’s all just perfect. He can’t help the harshly grateful noises he makes when Q lets his wrist go and wraps his hand around his cock, stroking in counterpoint to his fucking. He comes about ten seconds later, tendrils of black creeping at the edge of his vision. He hears Q give a sharp cry and a final hard thrust, and feels Q slump against his back. The both slide down the headboard, and 007 drifts off for a few moments.

When he’s back to himself, he is not at all surprised to find his hands secured in the damn cuffs. Q is holding the remote control and regarding it thoughtfully. He’s finally removed his shirt, and is sitting cross-legged and naked on the bed between 007’s legs.

“Do you know what the hallmark of a good craftsman is, 007?” asks Q.

“I am sure you are going to tell me.” 007 tests the give of the cuffs, but he has good reason to know he isn’t going anywhere until Q decides he’s finished with him.

“Making certain there’s a failsafe on a given device.”

“Antithesis,” says 007, without much conviction. He heaves a small sigh when nothing happens. But he hadn’t really expected it to.

“I’m afraid I’ve coded it to respond to my own vocal frequencies.” Q smiles at him, and there’s teeth, and it’s fucking sexy and a little scary, and 007 feels a twitch of interest from, well, pretty much every part of him.

“But if you’ll recall, before this admittedly intriguing interlude, I hadn’t finished demonstrating all the new devices I developed. Which you requisitioned, if memory serves. So I think we should resume that, don’t you?”

“I didn’t requisition most of that stuff!” he protests. “And that was a joke anyway.”

“Ah. Well, I couldn’t possibly send one of our agents out _unprepared_.” 007 can’t help but laugh at that. He’s still laughing as Q begins to explain about the new and improved nipple clamps that can be used as a gun. Or also as a vibrator. And the cock sheath that also doubles as a phone. And he doesn’t know what all else, because after that it’s fucking hard to concentrate.

There’s some kissing in between the explanations, (and oh god Q’s tongue and teeth-- and really his entire mouth-- should be registered as a deadly weapon) and also some groping as Q fastens all those things on him and in him, and starts pushing buttons on his controller. Fortunately, that bottle of oil is near at hand, because he has a feeling they’ll need it.

And 007 doesn’t even care, because he’s special agent 007, and he understands on a fundamental level that sometimes dire sacrifices must be made to learn the weaknesses of an opponent. But he’s just the man for it.


End file.
